Blood and Betrayal (The Emperor's Edge Book 5)

by Lindsay Buroker

  “So this is how it’s to go?” Amaranthe asked. “I’m to be beaten against things with strange alien technology until I talk?”

  “It’s generally not a good sign when the prisoners are mocking you,” came Pike’s voice from somewhere behind Amaranthe’s head. The dry amusement in his tone surprised her. He hadn’t struck her as someone human enough to have a sense of humor.

  “I’m sure you’ll put an end to that shortly,” came a new female voice. “The girl needs practice with the equipment. It took too long to shoot down that dirigible.”

  Amaranthe’s mouth sagged open. The voice was familiar. Her thoughts flashed back to her school days. One of… her teachers? Yes, that sounded like—

  “I translated everything in the navigation chamber, Ms. Worgavic,” the owner of the first voice said, “but even a year of study couldn’t prepare me to understand and operate the Ortarh Ortak fully.”

  “Ms. Worgavic?” Amaranthe twisted her neck, trying again to see the speakers.

  Ms. Worgavic had taught economics at the private business school Amaranthe had attended as a girl. It shouldn’t be a shock that one of her old teachers had been drawn in by Forge—Larocka Myll had been providing scholarships for the school, after all—but Ms. Worgavic? She’d liked Ms. Worgavic. She still quoted the woman on occasion.

  The claw pincers held Amaranthe fast, keeping her from seeing much, but the two female speakers walked over to stand beside the table. Yes, that was definitely Ms. Worgavic, a short, buxom woman with a few strands of gray in wavy black hair pulled back from her face with a clip. Dressed in a long wool skirt and short jacket that accentuated but didn’t flaunt her curves, she was the epitome of professionalism, or so Amaranthe had always thought. Her teacher had changed little in the last ten years, though the spectacles perched on her nose were a new addition.

  It took Amaranthe longer to identify the younger woman. She was even shorter than Ms. Worgavic and more chubby than curvy beneath her wrinkled clothing. A pencil perched above one ear, and, beneath it, a gold chain clipped to her collar held a monocle with a thick magnifying lens. She clutched a couple of books and had a finger stuck in one, acting as a bookmark. She was about Amaranthe’s age, no, a year younger. That was right. She’d been in the class behind Amaranthe. Retta Curlev. That was it. A frumpy girl, who’d avoided eye contact with everyone, read constantly in class, and been teased often. Amaranthe might not have remembered her at all, except that Retta had an older sister who’d been a legend at school, holding all of the academic records, and reputedly never missing an answer on a test. The last Amaranthe had heard, the older sister had gone on to be some world-traveling entrepreneur. The younger sister had become… well, Amaranthe was about to find out.

  A slight sneer twisted Retta’s lips as she gazed down at the table. Amaranthe didn’t think she’d ever participated in teasing the girl, but she doubted she’d offered her any kindnesses either. Their paths hadn’t crossed often. Unfortunately, Retta had the look of an angry young woman out to take revenge on the world for the collective wrongs received as a youth. Still, talking to her and Ms. Worgavic had to be better than dealing with Pike.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” Amaranthe said. “It’s nice of you to come visit. I’ve been lonely in my crate. Is this your flying vehicle? It’s quite the technological marvel. Find it at an archaeological dig, did you?”

  Retta’s eyebrows flew up. Had she been wearing the monocle, it would have dropped away. She turned toward Ms. Worgavic, a question on her lips, but the older woman lifted a hand to silence her. One correct guess, anyway.

  “Amaranthe Lokdon.” Ms. Worgavic clasped her hands behind her back and shook her head slowly. “You were a promising student until you dropped out of school to become an enforcer… What a waste.”

  Amaranthe should have offered a witty comeback, or at least a good sneer, but she found herself blurting an excuse. “My father was dying. I had to take care of him, and, after he was gone, I couldn’t afford to finish school.”

  Ms. Worgavic kept shaking her head. Given how often her team had thwarted Forge schemes of late, Amaranthe found it strange that her enforcer background seemed to disappoint Worgavic more than anything else.

  “Your… ingenuity over the last year shows that you can find a way when you want something badly enough,” Worgavic said. “You could have stayed in school, if you’d truly wished it. If nothing else, you had friends and were well-liked by your teachers.”

  Retta frowned at the last statement, perhaps remembering lonelier school years.

  “Why didn’t you simply ask someone for help?” Ms. Worgavic asked.

  “I… ” Erg, her old teacher had Amaranthe more on the defensive than Pike had. She had to figure out a way to cast old feelings aside; she was no longer a student yearning for the praise of a respected mentor. This woman was plotting against the throne and, for all Amaranthe knew, may have hurt or killed the men on her team.

  “You used your father’s death as an excuse to walk away from your education and the future he worked very hard to ensure you had. Why? Did you fear failure?” Worgavic shook her head again, a hint of disgust underlying her disappointment.

  Amaranthe closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Worgavic was stirring up old doubts that Amaranthe didn’t want to deal with, certainly not then and there. Nobody had a knife to her throat—yet. It was time to ask questions of her own. “What I chose to do was stay loyal to the empire and the emperor. My father would not fault me for that.” Even if he might fault her for spending time with assassins and taking the law into her own hands. “Why are you plotting against the throne? Why did you align with Forge?”

  “Align with it, dear? I’m one of the founders.”

  If not for the mechanical arms holding her down, Amaranthe would have fallen off the table. As it was, the blatant admission knocked her other questions off the tip of her tongue.

  Somewhere behind Amaranthe, a soft rasping started up. The sound of a blade being sharpened.

  Worgavic spread her fingers, laid her hands on the table, and leaned as close as she could without bumping into the metal arms pinning Amaranthe. “You do remember your history? Yes? Good. Name a powerful imperial woman for me, will you? One who was powerful in her own right, not because she married or birthed someone important.”

  “Uhm, Lady Taloncrest supposedly ran twenty miles while eight months pregnant to warn Fort Darkling Spire of a Nurian invasion in 433.” A fact Amaranthe only knew because she’d competed in running events as a youth, and one of the distance races was named after the woman. “She was given an advisory position on the emperor’s staff.”

  “An honorary seat with no real power. And, as you said, she was given the position. Power is taken or created from within. Try again. Someone important, someone of whom Major Pike over there would have heard.”

  The rasp of the sharpening stone continued without pause.

  “I’m unaware of the depths of his education. Was history a part of his Advanced Torture Techniques class?” As Amaranthe expected, that didn’t draw a laugh from anyone in the room. Given time, and less ominous background noise, she might have come up with more examples of relevant women from the past, but she doubted Worgavic truly wanted them. She wanted Amaranthe to admit that women had had little influence throughout the empire’s history. “Why don’t you let me go, and I’ll work on becoming someone important? I have plans, you know.”

  Amaranthe wriggled her eyebrows and offered a conspiratorial wink, not at Worgavic—if she truly was one of the Forge founders, there was no way Amaranthe would be able to sway her—but at Retta. Despite the sneer, she seemed the most likely person in the room to be won over. Retta blinked in surprise, but the surprise turned into a scowl, one that deepened when Worgavic looked her way.

  “Don’t include me in your plans,” Retta rushed to say, probably worried Worgavic would find that wink suspicious. “I don’t even like you.”

  “Why not?” Amaranthe asked, wo
ndering if she’d offended the girl irreparably at some point.

  Retta only scowled.

  Worgavic tapped a nail on the table. “Whatever your plans were, they’ve failed, child. Emperor Sespian is dead. We incinerated your dirigible and everyone on it. Whatever it is you hoped to gain from opposing us matters little now.”

  Amaranthe’s stomach clenched, but she kept her face neutral. She had no reason to trust Worgavic’s words. “You wouldn’t be asking me about Sicarius if you thought everyone had died on that dirigible.”

  Worgavic lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “It’s true. We’re not certain we got him. He’s tougher to exterminate than termites, and he’s ten times as annoying. Especially now that he has some vendetta against us.” She lifted her eyebrows, as if inviting Amaranthe to explain.

  “Huh,” Amaranthe said, imitating one of Sicarius’s unhelpful grunts.

  “I will retrieve the information from her,” Pike said.

  “Yes, I imagine you’ll be most efficient.” For the first time, Worgavic’s gaze softened as she regarded Amaranthe. “You needn’t suffer through this. Just tell me why Sicarius has been protecting the emperor and if he’ll continue to be a pebble in our shoes once Sespian has been replaced.”

  A pebble, right. A pebble that had killed thirty of her colleagues in a twenty-four-hour span. The rest of Forge had to be terrified that he’d come after them next. No matter how much security they’d set up, they must fear they couldn’t hide from him forever.

  “And then what? I tell you what you want to know, and you’ll let me go?” After all the grief Amaranthe had given Forge, she couldn’t believe anybody in the coalition would do anything except kill her.

  Worgavic nodded. “You may have your freedom.”

  Amaranthe decided it might not be in her best interest to scoff openly, but Worgavic must have guessed at her skepticism. She leaned forward again, lowering her voice. “We aren’t evil, Amaranthe. We’re simply assuring our futures and the futures of our children. If Sespian had been amenable to working with us, he could have lived a long, healthy, and wealthy life. But since he was not, we’ve chosen another who’s willing to grant our modest requests.”

  Maldynado’s brother. How much had he agreed to give away in exchange for the throne?

  “What are your modest requests?” Amaranthe asked.

  “You see,” Worgavic went on without acknowledging the question, “it matters little what man is in charge of the empire, so long as he works with us. Giving Sespian, or any other warrior-caste snob, your loyalty is pointless. And if it puts you on the wrong side, it’s worse than pointless. It’s to your detriment.” Worgavic waved to encompass the operating table. “You must put your emotions aside and weigh, with dispassionate calculation, each opportunity that comes your way. Everyone in Forge understands that you can either make the future or be subject to its whims. What I do today ensures a legacy for my children and their children, and for the descendants of all who ally with us.” Some vision only she could see filled her eyes. She and her Forge colleagues. “We have become a formidable force. Opposing us would be just as pointless as staying loyal to those who are destined to fall. Give me the information I seek, and you may walk away unharmed. I have no wish to see one of my former students, however misguided she may be, tortured.”

  Those vision-filled eyes never wavered, and Amaranthe started to believe the offer might be sincere. It didn’t matter.

  “You’re wrong, Ms. Worgavic.” Amaranthe turned her head away from the woman and stared up at the claw entrapping her. “Loyalty doesn’t begin to have a point until it puts you on the wrong side.”

  Major Pike stepped into view, a three-bladed trench knife with a brass knuckle-guard in one hand and a rolled up canvas kit full of tools in the other. “Time to begin, eh?”

  “Get the information,” Worgavic said, “nothing more.”

  “Of course.” Pike’s smile was tight, his dark eyes gleaming. “Of course.”

  Ms. Worgavic strode out of sight, disappearing through a door that opened automatically and closed behind her. Surprisingly, Retta didn’t follow her. Amaranthe wouldn’t have thought her the type of person who’d want to watch a torture session.

  Pike nodded toward her.

  Retta hesitated, but only for a heartbeat beneath Pike’s hard stare. She propped her monocle over her left eye and opened her book to the page she’d been holding. Her lips moved as she mouthed a few lines. After a moment, she closed the book, moved to the end of the table, and touched something on the side.

  A click sounded, and pain slammed into Amaranthe from six directions. Her back arched, and she tried to buck off the table, but the claw held her fast. Something sharp—like swords being driven through her body—had sprung from the pincers, piercing her body at the thighs, wrists, and shoulders. Moving, what little she could budge, only increased the pain. Those blades had pierced straight through her body in each place, all the way to the table beneath her. She took short, quick breaths, trying to control the pain. It didn’t work.

  “I better go now,” Retta whispered and hustled toward the door. Not before Amaranthe glimpsed distress in her eyes.

  Little good that did. Pike, a smile on his lips, remained at Amaranthe’s side, stroking his wicked knife.

  Chapter 4

  Twilight darkened the banks of the Goldar River by the time Maldynado and Yara neared Crow Landing, an old mill yard that had been turned into a park after the timber industry waned. Lights burned in nearby cottages, but this quiet part of town lacked the gas lamps and multi-story tenements of the busier city across the water. No lamps at all burned in the park, though Maldynado could make out old donkey engines and cutting blades taller than men that had been turned into sculptures. In the fading light, they cast strange, dark shadows across the fields and trails.

  Maldynado expected the emperor and the rest of the team to be waiting near the park entrance, but nobody called out when he and Yara arrived.

  “Nobody’s eager to try on their new clothing?” Maldynado asked, voice loud enough to carry.

  Maybe the others were simply being cautious and staying out of sight. Not a bad idea. Maldynado had seen more soldiers patrolling the streets on the way out of the city core. It’d been so nice of Sicarius to run around assassinating people so that all of the authorities were on edge. One of the guards on the bridge had questioned why Maldynado and Yara were leaving the city so soon, and at night. Fortunately, Maldynado had annoyed the men into waving them through by overzealously handing out business cards and touting the clothing at Madame Mimi’s Evenglory Boutique.

  “Perhaps they’re worried your outfits will accentuate their curves,” Yara grumbled.

  Maldynado shouldn’t have mentioned her outfit. She hadn’t seen the clothes yet, but she’d commented several times already that they’d be too frilly to be practical.

  “The only thing curving on Basilard are his dagger blades. I have, on occasion, accused Books of having womanly attributes, but I don’t think breasts are among them.” Maldynado sniffed. “I smell a fire. Maybe they found a camp spot by the river.”

  “It’s cold. Most of the houses around here have stoves going.” Yara waved toward the homes abutting the park.

  “Coal stoves, yes.” Maldynado started down an unlit trail that seemed to head toward the shore. “I smell a wood fire. And is that the scent of cooking fish? Basilard must be making something for the emperor.”

  “I hope it’s an improvement over those meat bars.”

  Though the gravel trail wasn’t wide, Yara insisted on walking beside Maldynado on it. Perhaps she relished the idea of bumping arms and hips with him. He didn’t mind, but figured it more likely that she simply refused to acknowledge him as her leader.

  “Basilard’s a fine chef. You’d be amazed at what he can do with roots and herbs scavenged from the middle of the woods.” Maldynado patted his belly, intentionally bumping Yara’s arm with his elbow. She scowled at him, and he smil
ed. “He’ll fill our bellies with palatable victuals. A good thing too. Meals have been infrequent this week, and my pants are fitting too loosely. Women like to run their hands along your chiseled muscles; they’re less enamored by the touch of boney ribs. I’m sure you’d agree.”

  “I don’t let women touch my chiseled anything. I—what’s that?” Yara pointed to the trail ahead.

  Maldynado stopped. A shadowy form lay across the path, dark against the pale gravel. He sighed. “Given how things go for this crew, I’d guess a body.”

  “One of your people?” Yara’s hand dropped to the short sword belted at her waist.

  “I’d be terribly disappointed in their training if that were the case.” Maldynado kept his tone light, but a tendril of concern wormed its way into his stomach. He set down his shopping bags, so they wouldn’t encumber him in a fight.

  “Someone one of your people killed?” Yara’s tone grew harder.

  While they spoke, Maldynado eyed their surroundings. The sculptures and hedges lining the park, along with the darkness itself, provided countless hiding places. Frogs croaked by the river. An owl hooted from the direction of an old mill, a two-story timber building a hundred meters away. Maldynado seemed to remember that it had been refurbished and turned into a dance hall at some point in the past. Right now, darkness blanketed it, and his imagination conjured not dancers but snipers crouched in the loft, observing the park through the open windows.

  “Watch my back,” Maldynado murmured and continued down the trail.

  This time Yara let him go ahead. Hand on the hilt of his rapier, Maldynado crept closer to the still form. It was definitely a person, though low foliage on either side of the trail blocked the view of the head and legs. Black clothing covered the body. Good. Nobody on their team had been wearing black, unless Sicarius had come back for the purpose of dying on a random park path. That was about as likely as the man developing a sense of humor.